I can hear the haw-haw call of the threshers working the oxen in the fields as the last of the golden harvest is being gathered. A group of villagers is helping to pile the threshed millet into slender towering stacks and on top of one of the mounds is an unmistakable figure. He stands out a mile amid the small, dark Nepali men. His tee-shirt is stained with sweat, face frowning with concentration as he works hard hauling the bales of straw to the top of the haystack.

The children, still shouting and laughing, pull me faster and faster until we’re running down the hill, full tilt towards the field. My heart is racing faster than I am. The men stop and look up at the noise. Dean puts down his bale of straw and straightens up, shading his eyes against the piercing sun.

‘Gora! Gora!’ the children cry again.

And suddenly there’s a look of recognition on Dean’s face and he’s scrambling down the haystack as fast as his legs can take him. ‘Lyssa!’

He runs across the field, clearing the low wall surrounding it in one mighty bound.

‘Dean!’ A big, unwieldy lump of emotion blocks my throat.

My lover doesn’t slow down at all as he catches me and sweeps me into his arms, twirling me round and round until the sky and the fields blur into one and I’m deliriously dizzy. Gently, he puts me down and takes my face in his hands.

‘Do you know how much I’ve missed you?’ he says.

‘I missed you too.’

We attract quite a crowd as the villagers, all thoughts of work forgotten, are flocking from the surrounding fields to form an inquisitive circle around us, familiar smiling faces whom I recognise from the festival.

‘I knew you’d come back,’ he says.

‘I’m here to stay.’ I can hardly speak. ‘If you want me to.’

‘If you stay, you’ll have to marry me,’ he warns seriously. ‘It’s the correct protocol.’

I grin at him. ‘I think I can live with that.’

‘So you’ll marry me?’

Tears flow down my cheeks. ‘Yes.’

Dean shouts out with joy. ‘I have dreamed of you saying that!’

He kisses me full on the lips and, at this moment, I don’t care whether it’s the correct protocol to show such overt affection in public or not because I’m drowning in the sheer bliss of it. And I don’t think the villagers care either as a cheer goes up and familiar strains of Nepali songs start up as they dance round us and shower us with marigold petals.

Dean slides his arm round my waist. ‘It looks as if we may be having an impromptu festival, the future Mrs Macaulay.’